


What Wolves Do To Wolves

by Dracones



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Basically if GRRM Ends It with a Jon/Arya/Dany threeway relationship I will be happy, Be Very Warned, But the story is more than just that, Daenaryon Needs to Be a Thing, Definite Incest of At Least Cousin Level, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Four Nights In A Row, Gen, Honest, I Must Write This Pairing, I Will Go Down With This Ship, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I'm trying to say that they have sex, It was a thing once in a smut fic, Just Did Some Research, Law-breaking, No proper fics though, Or Arya/Dany, Or Jon/Dany, Read it if you don't believe me., References to Music, Sexual Content, Someone Needs To Write That Fic, Swearing, anyway, be warned, pity, tagging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-16
Updated: 2015-09-16
Packaged: 2018-04-20 07:49:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4779491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dracones/pseuds/Dracones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She is the master of his fate, captain of his soul, centre of his universe. She is the light to him in dark places. She is his reason to live. He loves her. He can do nothing else.</p><p>Or, my first attempt at a modern Jon/Arya AU scenario. Wherein a long journey reaches an end, alcohol is consumed illegally, and love triumphs over fear and doubt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Wolves Do To Wolves

**Author's Note:**

> To Americans reading this, all references to "football" are in fact concerning the sport you would know as "soccer." Similarly, any reference to "trousers," you should take as meaning "pants." Also, what you call an "ass" will be instead referred to as an "arse." I would say that I'm sorry for the inconvenience, but it's not my fault at all that you guys decided to edit a perfectly fine language to suit your own preferences.
> 
> Also, regarding legal ages to do anything, I'm going with the British system, because that's what I know and what makes sense to me; you can legally have sex or marry at 16, drive a car at 17, and do everything else - drink alcohol, smoke, be considered a legal adult, get sent to proper prison, etc. - at 18.
> 
> On an unrelated note, as a British 18-year-old, I can confirm that I have done only two of the things listed above; I am considered a legal adult and I have drunk alcohol, though not much at all. I don't know why I told you that.
> 
> Arya is 16, Jon is 21. She is thus not allowed to either drink or drive, though she insists she is better than Jon at both. She may well be right.
> 
> Also, observant readers of my former works on FF dot net will notice a cameo appearance from an OC of mine. It isn't important, but it's there.
> 
> Also, this fic follows the geography of Westeros, takes the regions to be separate countries, and yet doesn't appear to have passport control at any of its borders. I only just noticed that flaw and can't be bothered to change it; this fic is about characters, not international relations.

He has a hangover when she calls. It is eleven AM and Jon thinks of leaving the phone to ring, but the damned thing's too fucking loud to be legal at this hour and goes on for almost a minute before he has enough motivation to reach over to the bedside table and check who it is. He stares at the blurry name on the screen for several seconds more, squinting as he tries to make sense of it through the haze, but the moment he realises who it is, he picks up.

"Arya," he groans, "Of course you're the only person who'd call me so early and expect me to answer. I did tell you about the breakup, right?"

"Yes, last night. In great detail." The irritation in her tone is clear, and she speaks over his automatic apology to add, "Four times."

"Shit. How late was it when we left?"

"Two. Then I had to drive you back to yours and by the time I was home myself it was nearer four. Thanks for that; I got seven bad hours sleep last night because I had to resort to drinking Coke to stay sober and awake while you were pouring your poor broken heart out all over my shoulder for six hours."

"You try breaking up with someone. And I've had to be your designated driver more often than you've had to be mine."

"Yeah, but on those nights I hadn't promised to take you to the football the next day."

"The foot- fuck! The North versus The Westerlands! The last game of the World Cup Qualifiers!" Jon groans wearily, his headache flaring to the fore as he pulls himself into a sitting position.

"Exactly!" Arya either doesn't notice or doesn't give a shit about his burst of pain, because she keeps speaking at an increasingly loud volume down the phone. "Game starts at eight, it's a five hour drive to Casterly Stadium, but with the extra traffic for the game it'll probably take eight, and it's nearly half an hour between your apartment and our house, and it's nine hours until kick-off and we've got less than half an hour's time to waste not travelling! You need to get up!"

Jon blinks slowly. "I didn't know you were coming."

"Well, you can hardly go with Ygritte anymore, can you? You mentioned it last night and offered to take me."

Jon blushes a bit at her choice of words, before coming to a painful realisation. "I'll have to drive? Of course I will, don't answer that, you're sixteen and traffic police won't recognise who our father is and let you off in the South." His head feels like shit and his body is uncoordinated. He certainly isn't ready to drive.

"They might let me off anyway if I show a bit of cleavage," she tells him, and though he knows she's just trying to irritate him he's tired enough that it's working and he growls down the phone and she laughs and hangs up and leaves him trying very hard to ignore a tantalising mental image of her leaning out of his car window.

* * *

Forty-five minutes later he pulls up outside the Stark home, waves hello and goodbye to their father, her mother, and their youngest two siblings as Arya piles into the car with her football shirt and a bag of supplies for the journey. They'll be heading South along the Kingsroad for maybe four hours if all goes well, then turning onto the Goldroad towards Lannisport. Naturally, Arya has brought at least a dozen CDs to choose from in addition to Jon's own collection, but though their music tastes are generally very similar, their moods are not, as Jon's hangover still lurks at the back of his mind telling him to avoid loud noises, while Arya's ridiculous amount of energy means that she wants a form of musical expression that generally comes across as... rowdy.

Jon immediately vetoes all suggestions of Rage Against the Machine for at least the next three hours, and suggests a bit of REM, which is followed by Radiohead and the Killers' first album _Hot Fuss,_ which is just ending by the time they reach the toll barrier at the Twins, and the more soothing soundtrack has done wonders for his head. However, Arya has grown impatient, and frustrated, and bored, and, when Jon pauses the music to pay the person in the booth, she swaps the CD for _Doolittle_ by The Pixies while he isn't looking.

Over the course of the last few hours, though, he's been feeling a lot better - he'd snacked on food she'd brought, and the roads were okay, and so they have a lot of fun singing along; Arya is better at mimicking the hoarseness of the male singer Black Francis's voice sometimes, which often leaves Jon to impersonate as best he can the bassist Kim Deal's brilliant high vocals. During the track _I Bleed_ in particular there are a number of interesting harmonies.

There is a pause between albums for a while; neither of them feel like putting another disk into the player. Jon considers the day so far quietly as he drives and the Kingsroad gets gradually more and more crowded. He can't remember much of last night at all... He can remember the day that caused it all too well.

"Arya," he begins, "What exactly did I tell you last night? About the breakup with..." He still can't say Ygritte's name.

"Everything, I think," comes the reply, "You went on about it for long enough. Lets see, she tried to solve all your arguments with sex, kept insulting your intelligence by saying you knew nothing, implied if not outright stated that she thinks Father isn't your actual father, and she thinks you have some kind of repressed crush on Sansa because she looks like Mother and she clearly puts too much faith in Freud's theories and Oedipus's creepiness. You got tired of calling her out on it, you had a massive row in which she threatened to shoot you just after telling you that you only liked her because she reminded you of someone else you loved that you thought you couldn't have, who she probably thought was Sansa, looking back, and you drove away as fast as your car could manage."

"That covers it well enough, yeah," Jon sighs. "Did I do or say anything else worthy of note?"

Arya considers him for a second. He can feel her gaze. "That was all you said, really. You cried a bit, but not much. Wondered if you really were father's, if you'd ever find love, and so on and so forth. The kind of fear that would be really funny if everyone didn't worry about stupid shit like that at times."

He nods slowly. "I have something to ask you about this whole breakup mess," he says, meeting her eyes with a grin. She takes a second to recognise the look, and grins back, and they both chant in unison, "Don't tell Sansa!"

* * *

In his heart, Jon can't help but fear that the reason he wants no more to do with Ygritte is because he can't face any more of her uncomfortable truths; even if her guesses aren't entirely accurate, they're almost all close enough to strike at his core. She comes from a culture where far more is accepted as normal, and he just can't deal with her theories for much longer.

Even if it is laughable that he would like Sansa, and it is impossible that he sees Catelyn as his mother, let alone something he desires in any way, he knows his heart and mind linger slightly too long on Catelyn's other daughter, his other sister. And he does not know what to do, so he does nothing, hearing Ygritte's words - _you know nothing, Jon Snow_  - echo through his head all the while.

* * *

Jon Snow is a nickname that has been long established for him, since Alliser Thorne, who was in the year above, had thought he was clever by assigning Jon the old-fashioned name for bastards in the region. It stuck, even amongst his friends, as Jon didn't mind much that people didn't automatically presume he was Catelyn's kid when they came over _and if his surname was Snow and not Stark then maybe he wouldn't feel so wrong about his heart's secret and he keeps holding onto that thought because if it hurts now then how much worse would it be if he shared her surname?_

* * *

Arya chooses the next record as well, as they take Raventree Bridge over the Blue Fork, though they end up only listening to one song from it - the only one either of them know by the artist and one of Arya's favourite songs; _Bitch_ , by Meredith Brooks. Jon just listens to her sing and hates the uncanny truths in the lyrics she sings at him; _I'm your hell, I'm your dream, I'm nothing in between/you know you wouldn't want it any other way._ In some corner of his chest, his heart is hiding and crying but beating all the same as it ever does, because he'll be damned before he dies for unrequited love _never mind the fact that he's already damned for it even if he hasn't died yet._

Next comes _The Best of the Smiths_ , which lasts until they're past the Golden Tooth despite increasing traffic. It's five o'clock, three hours until the start of the game, and they're moving at a decent speed; Jon expects that they might reach Lannisport with an hour or so to spare. There's a break in the music for a while, about fifteen minutes, and they just sit in the relative peace and quiet of the inside of Jon's car as he drives. But Arya has never been one for quietness, and when he notices that she's fidgeting he strikes up a conversation about her classes, but the topic soon drifts to her friends and what they've been doing recently; the one who looks like a Baratheon is working at some bar somewhere, the fat one is working in a kitchen, the one known as "Ned" is making inroads into the music industry through Bannerless Records, and the thin one with the weird name (Lobby? Lonny?) is being mercilessly bullied by the higher years and has an injured leg as a result. She doesn't associate with the butcher's son anymore, apparently; he stopped being friendly to her after he was bitten by a wild dog on an expedition she'd arranged.

She turns the subject to him, and he tells her about Sam and Pyp and Grenn, and Tormund and Mance, even though he doesn't know if he'll associate with them at all once they hear of the breakup.

The mention of that topic brings a pause.

"Are you in a relationship?" Jon asks, awkwardly. It seems like a good time to ask, if he's going to at all, and if he's gonna have to beat up whichever bastard will break her heart someday he wants to hear about them before the day of. He wants to defend her, that's all, _she can defend herself perfectly well but he wants to help anyway and there's absolutely no rampant self-interest involved, honest._

"Nope, not for lack of trying on Sansa's part. As if she's a walking advertisement for the bloody things herself. She seems to think that just because most of my friends are male at least one of them must like me, and I must like at least one of them, and that whoever could get through my shell the best would fall for me, and I for them. She didn't take it well when I told her that my best friend - the one I feel closest to, who I can talk about anything and everything with and have fun with whenever I can - is you. Stupid Sansa."

"She isn't stupid, she just thinks differently to you, like Ygritte isn't stupid; she just thinks strange things sometimes."

"It's a stupid idea to think that you'd fancy Sansa, though."

"And if I do?" Jon teases.

Arya snorts, and launches into a thorough and vehement rebuttal of the idea. "She isn't your type. Ygritte was fiery in personality, not just hair colour. You're determined, you're respectful, and you're loyal - you don't need someone to do nothing but quietly reassure you whether you need it or you don't, you need someone just as determined and stubborn, who'll not only know if you need a hug but will know when you need to get over yourself through a slap as well, and who'll be ready to give it. You need a passionate person to drive you on, not a passenger to go along for the ride. You need someone with a more similar taste in films, TV, and music to yours, or you'll never be able to do anything with them. You need someone who won't remind you of my mother every time you see her. Sansa isn't right for you and you don't like her that way anyway; you barely even talk to one another!"

Jon nods along. "So the incest wouldn't bother you?" he questions, cautiously glancing at her for her reaction.

Arya blinks slowly, almost sadly, frowning. "Not really, no. You're our **foster** brother, after all."

"But if I'm really your half-brother-"

"Then we've been lied to our entire lives by the most trustworthy man in the country."

Jon swallows. "Stranger things have happened." He has a funny feeling that _this conversation isn't about him and Sansa anymore_. He watches as Arya's chin is lifted stubbornly, jaw clamped shut, and she stares resolutely out of the window making a wordless noise of agreement, and he thinks, _perhaps it never was_.

* * *

The next album is put in shortly after, but Jon finds it hard to concentrate on anything at all from _Whatever People Say I Am, That's What I'm Not_ by the Arctic Monkeys due to the thoughts - fears, hopes, and worries - which permeate and circulate in his brain. He isn't helped by the fact that soon after he manages to tune into the music both he and Arya sing the line " _all that's left/Is the proof that love's not only blind but deaf,_ " and he catches her glance towards him about halfway through, and he grits his teeth and focus on the road. He can't get distracted, he tells himself, and if he spends his time dreaming then they might well crash. Besides, if there's an afterlife and he goes up there and people ask him _So, what happened to you, then?_ and his reply is _Well, it's a funny one, that, you see, I was driving to a football match with my foster sister who may be my half-sister as well and I was so distracted by romantic thoughts of her that I crashed and caused a massive pileup on the Goldroad_ , he imagines most conversations would end there.

* * *

Rage Against the Machine's debut album _Rage Against the Machine_ comes in next, and serves as a good and welcome distraction. It, along with the first five songs of _Nevermind_ by Nirvana, takes them to their destination; Casterly Stadium, on the coast, at the very edge of Lannisport and towering over a large portion of it. They park, pay for a parking ticket, and head for the entrance. They have forty minutes until the game starts, so Arya buys a match programme while Jon gets a couple of beers for them and some snackfood, and then they make their way to their seats.

They chat and snack while the stadium fills around them, about the teams and their chances - though the Westerlands' Gold League is the best in the world, few players at their club teams are from the region - they hire them from elsewhere, and thus their national team is good, but not excellent. The North's League, the First League, is not as entertaining - it is dominated by a few teams, while the Gold League is more competitive - but more of their players are from the North, and this stands them in good stead at international tournaments. However, this year has been a bad one, as star goalkeeper Jeor Mormont was banned from the sport for taking steroids, injuries have weakened the side, and luck hasn't gone their way on several crucial occasions. They need to win this game to secure qualification to the tournament.

"Are the managers saying anything interesting?" Jon asks Arya, who has the programme.

"Not really. Roose Bolton says it's a must-win game and asks the fans to show their support, as if we'd be here to do anything else, and Tywin Lannister says his team will try to win even though they've qualified."

"Right. Who do you think will win, then?"

Arya scowls. "Honestly, I don't think we've got much of a chance. Without Mormont, our defence looks shaky at best, if not outright vulnerable. We're fine in the midfield, Torrhen Karstark in particular is excellent, but our best attacking option is Robin Flint and he doesn't have the stamina to play the full ninety minutes, which you need when you play a team managed by Tywin Lannister. We can't have him play seventy minutes before we put that piece of shit  _Daryn Hornwood_ on instead or we'll never be able to exploit the fact that their best centre backs, Lorch and Payne, are almost too old to play anymore!"

"Their strikers haven't been on great form recently," Jon counters. "Gregor Clegane is tall, and good at heading, but crap with his feet. With Smalljon in goal we have a decent chance of intercepting their crosses. He's been improving recently. And since Jaime Lannister's injury Tywin seems to think he has a point to prove, and his men try to attack too often as a result. They leave themselves open to counterattacks, and we can take advantage of that. We have fast wingers."

"And they have the best goalkeeper in the world right now in Sandor Clegane. Don't expect Hornwood to get any past him."

"With any luck, he can leave that to Flint."

The discussion continues until the teams are announced, and it turns out that Hornwood is playing rather than Flint; Arya reckons Roose Bolton has lost the plot, until Jon suggests that Flint could be substituted on at about twenty minutes in, meaning he'd retain more energy in the latter stages of the game and be better able to capitalise on the tiredness of the opposition. Then, the game starts, and there's less talking and more cheering going on.

* * *

The first ten minutes of the game are frustrating. Though the North have several good chances, they are all either saved or missed. Karstark hits the post from outside the box, a Hornwood free-kick lands on the roof of the net, and Clegane stands his ground well in a one-on-one with winger Jory Cassel to smother the chance of a goal. Then the tides turn. Roose shifts his team onto the defensive in absence of an early goal, and Tywin steps the intensity up. There is a clearance off the line by young fullback Cley Cerwyn, several other shots are blocked and there is an excellent save from the Smalljon, diving low and to the right to save a shot from Robin Brax. Twenty-five minutes into the first half, Daryn Hornwood is substituted off and Robin Flint on in his place. The two sides go through a period of really good football, counterattack after counterattack, and Jon and Arya cheer themselves almost hoarse in support of their team. Nothing comes of it at either end, however, and half time comes at forty-five minutes in with the score at a well-fought nil-nil.

Jon goes and gets drinks again, but the queue is terrible and so he gets four rather than two - to save himself another trip later and make this one feel worthwhile. Besides, Arya's face goes slightly red when she's impassioned and it's shockingly cute _in an entirely platonic way_ but he doesn't think he can handle it right now without alcohol.Although alcohol increases the redness, maybe he won't notice it so much if he's had a couple more by the end of the match.

* * *

The second half begins in the worst possible manner. Flint takes the kick-off, sliding the ball to Karstark, who tries to drive forwards and is neatly intercepted by fresh substitute Westerlands midfielder Tytos Waters. Waters is past Karstark's central midfield partner, Theo Wull, five seconds later, and defensive midfielder Domeric Bolton fails to block Waters' chip towards Clegane, who is marked by both central defenders and tall enough to easily nod it forwards to meet Waters' feet as he passes the defenders unmarked and touches the ball down perfectly only to send it rising again, with a beautiful flick over the scrambling Smalljon and an easy tap-in to follow. The score is one goal to nil. The North need two more to win, and to qualify for the World Cup. A chorus of mixed cheers and groans resonate through the stadium, and Jon has his head in his hands.

"We can't come back from this," Arya tells him. "This is Lannister's team we're playing. You don't beat him easily, and they have the breakthrough, the psychological advantage. We're gonna lose."

"It could happen," Jon tells her. "You've seen Smalljon in the First League. He galvanises himself, strengthens his resolve, with every goal, every mishap, and he's loud enough as he does that the rest of the team follow his lead. That means that our defence will probably hold from now on, and if we score, we're back in this, particularly considering Tywin Lannister's tendency to have his teams sit back once they're ahead. If Bolton recognises that, makes the right substitution or tactical change..."

She flashes him a sceptical look.

* * *

The next twenty minutes are marked by slow play from both teams. The North hang back, defenders keeping the ball, when they can, and when the Westerlands intercept or increase pressure, the ball is promptly cleared. When the Westerlands have the ball, they sit back, as if expecting the Northerners to advance in strength, and the slower period persists until what Roose Bolton's team have clearly been waiting for.

The perfect moment.

Robin Flint has momentarily dragged both opposing central defenders out of position, there is a lapse in concentration from Westerlands left-back, Brax, Jory Cassel spots the space open up and sprints forwards. Cley Cerwyn has the ball, on the other side of the pitch and in his own half, but the North's defenders have been waiting for this moment all night and he dabs it away from the opposing winger and absolutely thumps it forwards.

The diagonal ball is perfect. The defenders can't turn fast enough, Clegane comes off his line to try to collect it but misjudges the trajectory and is left stranded as Cassel takes a delicate touch on the edge of the penalty area, sidesteps Clegane's dive for the ball, and passes it into the back of the net. The Northerners roar and howl. The Westerners groan. Jon and Arya jump to their feet as they cheer, absolutely yelling their heads off as they jump and punch the air and hug. Jon jets go reluctantly, as the euphoria of his relief still clings to him _though he'd rather she did instead_.

* * *

There are only twenty minutes left to play when Jon's adrenaline high withdraws and he looks at the game properly again as central midfielder Theo Wull is substituted off, replaced by striker Ramsay Bolton. The formation changes to a 4-1-2-1-2 diamond, the wingers becoming more central on the pitch. Tywin Lannister immediately substitutes a winger off for a third central defender to come on instead. The second winger shifts central too, as a supporting striker to Clegane. The game thus becomes far more tactical.

Nonetheless, for a quarter of an hour attack after attack from both teams fails to result in a goal. Clegane heads wide, Waters - who neither Jon nor Arya had heard of before - has a beautiful strike from outside the area saved, brushed just over the crossbar. The Westerlands' winger-turned-striker misses two crucial chances. Meanwhile, at the other end of the field, Ramsay Bolton latches onto a lovely cross from his half-brother Domeric but lashes his shot straight into Clegane's face. Karstark has an attempt parried past the post, and in the resulting corner, Cerwyn almost scores with a bicycle kick. Robin Flint terrorises the defence, but can't quite convert, often thanks to the third, substitute defender.

It is the last minute of added time when the deadlock is broken. Brax, a Westerlands' full-back, wins the ball from Cassel and races up the wing, largely empty due to the narrowing of the formations. He cuts inside, turns outside, cuts inside again and lashes a cross towards the centre past a bewildered full-back. The ball is aimed for Clegane, and aimed well, but Smalljon is almost as tall as Clegane and is free to use his hands, and intercepts the cross with a mighty punch that carries all the way to Karstark, just outside the centre circle. He turns in a millisecond, dodging a defensive midfielder's slide-tackle, and is away. Cassel is to his right, Flint and Bolton ahead, and Ryger to his left as he sprints towards four of the Westerlands' back five. Flint drops back, closer to Karstark, and a defender follows, torn between the two opponents. Karstark dummies a pass towards Ramsay and exchanges a one-two with Flint, confronting the last two central defenders in a four-against-three situation. He stops in the middle of his run, foot on the ball, and as the defenders adjust, stop backing off, even as Flint sprints at them, he chips it over their heads to meet Cassel's run. The winger chests it and slides it across the goal, where Flint walks it into the net before sprinting out of it to celebrate.

Around him, sixty thousand people are all either elated or disappointed. The outpouring of emotion can be heard for miles. Across the North, hundreds of thousands have watched the game, bitten their nails, and cheered ecstatically, because their team is in the final because they kept going and kept fighting and took their chances when they needed them most, because Robin Flint had the energy to keep going until the end, because Jory Cassel is an incredibly composed player, and because Brax was too desperate to win the game his team didn't have to win that he ended up losing it.

And that is the importance of international sport. It inspires dreams and emotion, both for good and for ill.

Jon and Arya hug for most of the remaining minute of the game. And when the final whistle blows, they cheer all over again.

* * *

It is only once they reach the hotel - small, but decent quality and within budget -  that Jon remembers that he'd booked the place with himself and Ygritte in mind, and there would be only one bed. However, Jon is a coward sometimes, and doesn't know how to say it to say. And so, it is only once they enter the room that Arya notices the issue. He's already resigned to the oncoming argument when she says," No, you're not sleeping on the floor."

"I'm not letting you sleep on the floor. You're my little sister. I'll sleep on the floor."

"No-one will sleep on the floor!" she exclaims. Both their eyes flicker to the bed. Temptation flickers in Jon's heart. "It's a double bed. It's built for two," she continues, resolutely.

"We haven't slept together since I was twelve and you were seven. I'm a grown man and you're a woman, and we're family. We have desires now. It's not done."

"I don't care about whether something's "done" or not, and neither do you! You're my brother, yes, but my foster brother. We aren't related by blood." She has that stubborn tilt to her head again, her jaw locked - he knows her, he can read her like a book, and she is saying something she isn't certain she believes.

"And if we fuck? What then? If we get into that bed and cuddle and kiss and get aroused and take off clothes and _fuck_ , what then? Will we both keep lying to ourselves, telling each other that we aren't related even though we don't know for sure and we look _so similar?_ Because other people won't think that and then, someday, it'll be tested or father will tell us and we'll know the truth, which is probably heart-breaking, and we'll never be together again! I don't want that, Arya, that's the last thing I want." They are standing in the middle of the room, less than a foot apart. Jon's words have struck at the heart of the matter, finally addressed the fears that have been lurking for years in their hearts, and they just stare into each other's eyes. Countless fears permeate Jon's mind as he stares; does she not feel the same? Will she hate him? Is she his half-sister?

Suddenly, her eyes narrow. Jon's too busy worrying to react, and the next thing he knows, she's grabbed him by the neck and pulled him downwards and her lips are on his, and she tastes of beer and sweat and she feels divine and looks it too because she always has and he's always loved her since the day she was born but now he's kissing her and she's kissing him and it's the best thing he's felt in his life and he wishes it would never end but it does and she pulls away and he realises she's picked his pocket because his phone is in her hand.

 _Gods,_ _he loves her._

"Now," she tells him, "I am going to hand you this phone and you are going to call Father and demand he tell you the truth. And after that I'll kiss you again, and we'll probably fuck because if we don't and we are related we'll never give ourselves another chance to do this and in the name of fuck I want to do this. Understand?"

Jon can only agree whenever she gets demanding. In this instance in particular, she's absolutely right, and he'll kick himself for the rest of his life if he doesn't take this chance he's been dreaming of for far too long.

She presses call and hands him the phone.

It's a few seconds before Ned Stark picks up, and when he does, he sounds tired. "Jon? What is it?"

"There's something I need to know," Jon tells him.

"I've had a long day, Jon," Ned replies. "Can you ask when you get back, or is it urgent?"

"Urgent."

Ned yawns. "Go ahead, then."

"Am I really your son?"

There is an intake of breath. Ned's voice grows sharp. "How exactly is this urgent, Jon?"

"You don't want to know that... Father?"

There is a sigh. Ned Stark sounds old. "I suppose I don't. I don't quite know how to put this, Jon, but... You aren't my son, you're my nephew. My sister Lyanna's son, with Rhaegar Targeryen."

"What happened to her?"

"She died shortly after giving birth to you."

"And why haven't you told me this before? Why haven't you told anyone?"

"Rhaegar had died recently, and Lyanna wanted me to raise you rather than his family, who she didn't trust. _Promise me,_ she said, _Promise me, Ned_. Because they could have claimed custody of you if they'd known you existed, I had to make people believe you were either my foster child or my bastard until you were too old for them to claim you."

"And what then? When I was eighteen? Why not tell me then?"

"I was afraid, Jon. I was afraid I would lose you as a son because I lied to you for so long. Will you forgive me?"

"I... I need time to think. I'll probably speak to you tomorrow." Jon hangs up, unable quite to comprehend what he's just been told.

* * *

The next thing he knows, Arya is in his arms and hugging him, because no matter how exactly they love each other the fact that they do is always going to be a constant. He holds onto her tight and closes his eyes, because she is all he has for certain now that everything's changed and his life is thrown into doubt, and if he won't cling to her now of all times when will he ever do so?

He opens his eyes to see her staring up at him and is overcome with love. "Cousins," he whispers, as if he too wishes to keep it secret. "We're cousins."

"Well that's not so bad, is it?" she asks at the same volume. "Cousins can marry legally, you know. It's considered taboo, but it's better than siblings, at least."

He smiles, nods, leans down, and lips once again meet lips. This time, it's gentler, tender, and just as beautiful as the first. They part briefly to smile, which in Arya's case is an impish grin, and she grasps his shoulders and launches herself up off the ground to crash into him, mouth open and seeking his. He stumbles back, hands clutching her to him as his mouth opens instinctively in response, tongues writhing, battling, feeling. Her legs and arms are wrapped around him, his hands cupping her pert arse deliciously, and his back lands hard on the wall behind him as he fails to halt his backwards momentum. She kisses harder, shoving her face into his before applying suction on his tongue and pulling away from him, mischievous smirk firmly in place. She lets go, licks her lips, and dives right back in. Jon can only moan in response, her passion overwhelming him and her impishness turning him on. There's nothing quite so arousing, he thinks, as the sight of  _that_ grin on her approaching face.

For a few seconds more, Arya is entirely in control, but Jon is no pushover, not even for her, and he spins them around and hears her back thump against the wall and a gasp begin to escape her beautiful mouth the moment before he grinds his cock against her mound through their trousers and squeezes her arse, and the gasp becomes a moan. He kisses her mouth, her chin, her adorable nose, and, repeatedly, her neck, grinding and caressing the entire while. She moans again, and he can hear her grit her teeth as he shifts his right hand off her arsecheek and onto an incredibly soft breast. She responds with a hand of her own, creeping away from his neck to caress his chest and pinch a nipple, hard. He flinches, gasps, and she slides her mound downwards along his cock, causing them both to moan. Half a second later, her feet are on the floor and a hand - the same one which pinched him - is rubbing him over his fly. The next thing he knows, she's slipped a leg behind his and her hands have circled his chest, and then she humps his thigh and it's so fucking hot but not as hot as when she uses the leg to trip him and her arms to pull herself down on top of him with _that_ grin again and he almost comes right there.

He's flat on his back and she's got her lips on his neck and her hands under his shirt and she's biting and sucking a path from one collarbone to the top of his neck and down to the other collarbone, a path of red marks which will last at least a day or two and now she's making a line connecting the first two, slightly below halfway down, and he wonders what she's doing until he realises all of a sudden that she's _marking him_ with a great big capital **A** _for all to see_ and _dear fuck_ he loves her _so fucking much._

She begins to pull his t-shirt off the moment she's done marking her initial into his flesh, even as he grasps the bottom of hers. They remove the garments simultaneously, as best they can, and she isn't wearing a bra, she hasn't all day and he certainly noticed but it's so much more evident when her breasts are hovering above him in all their glory. They're smallish, smooth, beautifully rounded, and he is going to feel each and every millimetre, from the softest curves to her hard pink nipples.

"Gods," he whispers, staring.

"Breasts," she corrects, cupping them sensually. He kisses her for that comment, and they press against his chest. Her hands leave them for his face, and his take their place, holding and weighing and then massaging. She tosses her head back and moans as he does so, and so he launches himself forwards to her exquisite, thin neck, nipping at it and kissing the marks. His hands shift down to her arse again, and he pulls her forwards, so he can feel her mound against his abdomen and reach her breasts with his mouth.

He kisses them, licks every inch at least twice, and spends over a minute suckling on each nipple, which she particularly enjoys, and her moans intensify rapidly in this period. His hands caress her back gently, but he doesn't need them to feel the undulation of her hips intensifying as she humps his abs and gets closer and closer to orgasm. With one final hard suck on each nipple, Arya's incredible moaning echoing through the room, Jon shoves his face between her boobs and nips at the skin there while his hands find her nipples and pinch, hard.

She comes, screaming his name. He watches her face as she pants, lost in pleasure for several glorious seconds, and knows that this is a sight he wants to see every day for the rest of his life.

"Jon," she says, coming down from her high and looking absolutely delighted. Her eyes radiate love, and they hold one another close for a few seconds.

They kiss gently, then with more force, and the caresses begin again. Arya has taken her pleasure from him, has won the first round, and so he feels safe in assuming that he can pick her up and put her on the bed without suffering retribution, and does so, his still-hard cock awkwardly pressed to his body. He places her on the edge of the bed, and she leans back on her elbows, watching him and appearing incredibly superior and content. He shudders at the sight, aroused beyond measure, but grits his teeth and decides to follow through with his plan.

He kneels.

There is a wry smile on Arya's face as he does so, but it vanishes when he yanks her trousers down without ceremony, taking her knickers with them. He pulls them off entirely, taking her socks with them, and he picks the knickers up. They're white, and plain, besides the running Direwolf sigil of House Stark that adorns the front, and they're absolutely soaked. He looks up from them to their owner, who meets his eyes as he brings them to his nose to sniff, smirks when he smiles in pleasure, and, when he licks the inside of them right down the middle, licks her own lips tantalisingly in response.

Jon sets the knickers to one side and focuses on her long, toned legs. He caresses her smooth skin, kisses the inside of each knee, runs his hands up her thighs. pushes them apart, meets her eyes, and dives in.

Arya seems to have a thing for sucking, he notices; sucking both her nipples and her clit results in copious pleasure on her part. He loves the taste of her, the feel of her, the smell, the sight... She is an exquisite feast worth a dozen Michelin stars and he cannot get enough of her. He slides a finger into her and _fuck_ she's tighter than anything he's ever known. He sucks and flicks her clit as he fucks her with his fingers, and in almost no time she's coming again, quietly this time, but he can feel it around his finger and nothing has ever felt greater.

He kisses her with her cum still on his face and in his mouth and she drinks every bit she can. _Bloody hell._   She likes it just as much as he does, her own cum, and it's ridiculously erotic.

Taking a deep breath, he looks to his left and picks up Arya's knickers, holding them up to her. "A wolf, are you?" She smiles, shows her teeth playfully. "And no mere cub at that. You're a ferocious young she-wolf, Queen of her Pack, ruler of all she surveys. Isn't that right?" She nods sharply, and growls in the back of her throat. He grins, and leans forwards over her, hands brushing her breasts and settling on her shoulders. He leans further, pressing his lips to her ear. "You aren't a virgin, little wolf, are you?"

She shakes her head. "Fucked myself too deep too many times for that."

"Well then, my Queen of wolves," he says, "I suppose you won't mind if I fuck you like one?"

With those words he grasps her shoulders and flip her onto her front as she gasps in delight and practically hisses the word _yesssssss_. He holds her down with his left hand - as if he needs to - as he undoes his flies and pushes his trousers and boxers down. She smiles at him over her shoulder, and they share a tender moment before he shoves his cock into her cunt. She's wet, and soft, and so fucking tight it's constricting, and Jon would love to cherish the moment but he said he would fuck her like a wolf and by all the gods he will be true to every word he says to her. So he pulls out as far as he can, missing the feel of her wrapped entirely around him already, and thrusts back in, drawing a scream from her this time when first there was a gasp. He moans and groans at the sensation, clutching at her hips, and then goes at it in earnest, as fast and hard as he can because he knows she will accept no less.

She throws her head back, spine arching, and wordlessly howls her appreciation. In a flash of inspiration, Jon seizes her still-wet knickers in both hands, and loops them around her head in such a manner that most of the fabric is in her mouth and he grips two handles on either side of her head. Her cry is strangled, cut off, but she moans instead as he pulls her head back hard and fucks her harder. She is incredibly flexible and he is quite tall, and so they glimpse each others' eyes for a second, and all his concern is reassured by the ecstasy on her face. He decides to try something different.

"You're a naughty little wolf," he tells her, and she writhes beautifully in response. "Fucking your cousin, and howling so loud everyone'll hear it from here to King's Landing. I almost suspect you want them to know. Do you? To tell the world how wrong it is, how good it feels, to be under my cock?" She's panting now, breathing hard, and he's sure she's going to orgasm soon. "But you can't, can you? You're too busy sucking your own cum from your knickers to shout. Such a naughty little wolf bitch." He slips both sides of the knickers into a single hand and uses the other to fondle her breast gently. He leans forwards and whispers, "Do you like the taste, _cousin?_ The taste of yourself? Or should I say sister instead? Will that turn you on, you dirty bitch? We've been siblings all our lives and here you are on my cock, loving it. You're a naughty girl, Arya Stark, _sister,_ and you're writhing on my cock like a whore." Her hips, impossibly, undulate more at the comment. Her moans intensify. "And now," he says, speeding up his thrusts even more, "You come for me, little sister."

And come she does. She screams, even through the knickers, and she writhes so much his cock almost comes out even though her cunt is clenching him so fucking tight it hurts. He's so close, and he tells her so, tells her that, "I'm gonna cum, Arya, I'm gonna cum so hard, and dear fuck I want to cum inside your beautiful cunt," and she's silent, and he says "Arya, can I cum? I need it, I need you," and she's silent, and he is thrusting and thrusting and his eyes are closed as he waits, and he yells "PLEASE ARYA I LOVE YOU SO MUCH LET ME CUM IN YOUR-" and he feels fabric in his mouth and tastes the taste of her and he opens his eyes and she's nodding at him, wearing nothing but _that_ grin, and he grits his teeth, knickers and all, and he finally, finally reaches his orgasm. Pleasure erupts throughout him and he thinks he blacks out for a second because one moment she's on her front and the second she's spun herself around on his cock and she's pulling him down to her on the bed with a beautiful smile on her face, which he's sure he's replicating on his own.

They kiss, again, gently, slowly, for almost a minute. Then, he begins to pull his softening penis out of her beautiful body, but she wraps her legs around him and holds him in place, that oh so familiar stubborn look on her face. "You, Jon Stark, are staying inside me for as long as is humanly possible. I won't let go of you until at least tomorrow." Her eyes grow mischievous. "Make the most of it," she tells him, and what can he do but comply? She is the master of his fate, captain of his soul, centre of his universe. She is the light to him in dark places. She is his reason to live. He loves her. He can do nothing else.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was partially inspired by Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now, by The Smiths, which is an awesome song I highly recommend. Oh, and when I say "inspired by," I mean that I wanted to write a Jon/Arya fic and didn't know where to start, so I picked that song as a potential source of inspiration and ran with my first idea, and, well, this happened. Enjoy.
> 
> Perceptive!Ygritte is something I really didn't expect to happen, though it works well as a plot device and gives them a reason to break up - I didn't want to kill her off, it'd have been pointless - which puts this fic in motion and fits the song, though Jon wasn't exactly "happy" in the haze of his drunken hour(s). Nonetheless, I think it rather fits Ygritte to be able to tell people things about themselves they didn't already know. She has a different way of looking at things, and she would certainly question, for example, why Ned doesn't acknowledge Jon as his bastard and just says he's fostering him when everyone believes he's his bastard anyway. Certainly in this world Jon has little to try to hide from her and she had the chance to come into contact with his family; it makes sense that she'll be able to read more into him than she did in canon, such as perhaps changes in manner when his sisters, or Catelyn, are mentioned. She isn't stupid. She probably only drew incorrect conclusions due to the fact that she has red hair and so do both Catelyn and Sansa... She thinks Jon is channelling his misguided and suppressed feelings for them - who would never accept them - through her. It's not entirely unfounded, and though it's not right, it's close enough to seriously unnerve Jon around her and fracture their relationship.
> 
> Also, I didn't expect this to develop into the smut the ending turned out to be. I could well have ended it with the line "He smiles, nods, leans down, and lips once again meet lips. This time, it's gentler, tender, and just as beautiful as the first" and just added a conclusive-sounding ending to it. In fact, that's what I intend to do when posting this on FF dot net. However, this version is the truer version, as this fic is, at its heart, little more than my attempt to work out the dynamics of an Arya/Jon relationship while trying to keep them in character, and the sex is a large part of that. It begins competitively, and they're playful a bit, tease, have fun amongst it, and joke, as they always have. But he knows she isn't the type for simply lying down, and the whole she-wolf dynamic begins. She trusts him, as we know, and the manner of the sex they have is very indicative of that; she's entirely giving up control of the situation. The knickers only further the point. But the bit I really worry about, character-wise, was the passage in which Jon basically seriously insults an Arya who can't even talk back whilst fucking her. Basically, she in this case is enjoying the lack of control, while he feels he has a choice; either just moaning her name interspersed with "I love you"s or playing the bad guy, the insulter and degrader, expressing the guilt and fear and worry that they were related which has built up over their years of doubt through calling her out on it. As for the insults, well, she responds positively and he kind of lets it run away from him. She takes the power back, though, in not letting him cum until he's literally shouting. Or until he says please, depending on how you look at it. I hope it was in character...
> 
> On a whole, I tried to make this as loving as I could. If you think that came across well or badly, please let me know!
> 
> Also, I seem to have written this in present tense. This is highly unusual for me; I tend to write past tense. I feel it fits, however, so I shall leave it this way; if you noticed any errors in tense, for example, wasn't rather than isn't, please let me know so I can edit it out. Thanks!


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